Menu

4 out of 5 dentists recommend this WordPress.com site

Post navigation

I have always been stubborn. Last night, it was at a different level. It was on the level where my lifelong dreams and my greatest love could have flown away in a snap. My argument with my boyfriend was valid, but it will never be enough to justify my foolish suggested solution: breaking up.

The fight was something millions of couples could have solved in five minutes or so, but since I was stubborn as I’ve said, it took an hour in my 10-hour shift (was on breaktime!). My feelings and reasons revolved around the way his voice sounded on the phone with me. I was right to demand a calmed voice when I phoned him earlier but because I was the first one to raise my tone, his initial reaction got in and I received a nastier voice back. Who wouldn’t react the way he did, when while enjoying your dinner you got a nagging call from your girlfiend? But the reason I was bitching over the phone was a different, shallow story (Okay, I’ll tell you. He wasn’t replying to my texts for two-three hours. He was busy with work. He apologized during the same phone convo right after realizing the way he sounded. Fuck me, right?).

But no. I was stubborn and I needed more apology. The way to get that scale of sorry was to express more anger even when it was no longer necessary. My boyfriend went to my office’s building on his way home fully unaware of the shit I was about to put him through. As I was walking towards him, I was determined not to smile (even when I really wanted to – he was jolly when he saw me) and make him feel my wrath… or ego.

I started lashing out things which were very irresponsible to say in the first place, things I never meant, things that stabbed my very own heart because deep down I knew he didn’t deserve them. But I was blinded by anger and pride that I was even able to bring up the thought of breaking up to end the ordeal once and for all. For a few seconds, maybe even for a few minutes, I was a bit confident that if he agreed to my idea of parting ways I could just move on with my life. I was even proud to have an eye to eye contact with this poor man that I actually and truly love while challenging him to end this wonderful relationship we have. He never said yes. He never said no. And before he could even take the chance to finally spill a decision to me, I decided to hold his hand. I wanted to say sorry immediately but my pride kept eating my words. Such a stupid woman I was.

The only great thing about this story was that we turned out alright and in each other’s arms. He held me like he was never hurt, he lent me his hanky, he kissed my forehead several times, he told me he loves me.

Fast forward to my breakfast a while ago (was alone, had another breaktime at work)…

Since I was alone, I got the time to reflect. Then every happy thing that happened in our relationship flashed back into my mind. It felt like the universe woke me up from a coma by hitting my head with a rock. That’s the moment I recognized the fact that technically I could move on without him had that break up drama pushed through, but my life would never be the same. It would be the saddest life I’d ever live if reincarnations are true.

I love this guy with my whole heart, mind, body, and soul that I am no ashamed to declare it here. I love you. And I’m sorry… again.

It’s been a while since I ever logged in in here. Well, I could use that same opener in almost every entry I post and it would always be accurate.

There were a lot of reasons why it took me a lot of time, reasons, excuses, and distractions to get another post up and running. For one, I considered abandoning this altogether. Yes, abandon another blog. I’ve done to a couple of blogs in the heydays just because. For the past weeks I had a different reason. I wanted to put up my CV online. A CV website. Yes, just like the pros. Pros don’t whine online. Or they whine anonymously. Out of HR eyes. I wanted to have my own domain name to impress future HR encounters. I just wish this new goal won’t bury itself beneath the world of forgetfulness. It requires some money so just like anything I pursue in life, it will come later.

In other news, I’m enjoying every bit of gym life there is. I’ve enrolled in Slimmers World International and been loving my Zumba, Hiphop, Yoga and Cardio classes. I also like the fact that I have a free trainer who made a specific program for my fatloss goals: abs and thighs. This is the first time in my life I’m going to the gym with an idea of what to actually do with the machines aside from staring at them.

My lovelife’s always a blast. Very few lovers’ quarrels and usually petty. Nevertheless, I am in love as ever. Crazy about him as ever. Wish he is too. Lately our date budget sucks so there ain’t no weekend spa sessions yet. But I’m pleased with the fact that the boyfriend is enjoying his job. I like guys who love … rephrasing… passionate about their work (even before I started dating him). It’s just sexy. Okay, TMI it is.

The online classes I’m having (both the free ones and the paid one) are just fine. Three pyschology courses have ended. I’m a sucker for intro to psych courses and sad there ain’t one as of now. My ‘paid’ creative writing prof is helluva busy literati. I’m still anxiously waiting for her latest critique on my work. She has got the eye of a tiger. Is that line even right? I only wish we have a closer mentor-student relationship. But she’s damn busy with writing conventions.

If you’re a close friend you would have heard me craved about going to graduate school and being undecisive about so many things related to it. 1) What degree: psych or journ 2) Where: cheap very affordable universities or prestigious and expensive universities 3) Why: corporate ladder leap or teaching post. So far, I have no answer for any of these yet. Sometimes I am taken over by the amount of tuition. Sometimes the philosophy of “investing in education” wins. I know no one can solve this dilemma for me other than myself. So til the time comes my brain cells come up with a feasible, reasonable, and practical answer, I might withhold this life-changing and pocket-shrinking move. Unless of course I get a scholarship.

With graduate school plan looking once again adrift, I am leaning towards traveling and other exciting stuff next year. To tell you honestly, I am leaning towards other expenses. I want 1) to travel to either HK or Korea and Boracay/whereever with the boyfriend 2) enroll in a French class 3) buy a PS4 4) buy a real baking oven and fucking bake 5) continue my gym membership. All of these would require more than P50,000 in total… so wish me luck. I would like to justify each ‘exciting’ thing I mentioned above. 1) travel = because I think I can 2) French class = good use for applying to Canada as immigrant once and for all! At the same time it is sexy. And I like to fool myself in feeling like a student just because I’d probably be inside a classroom with other people. 3) PS4 = for the kinect and the cheaper price tag vs Xbox One 4) oven = because I loathe easy recipes I cannot make 5) because I don’t want to stop my dance classes. At-home YouTube classes aren’t as fun.

In my next entry, I predict I’m gonna start it with “It’s been awhile since…”

The right to vote is a basic right. But it ain’t too basic to deal with these days. This is why I’m begging off my constitutional opportunity to help the nation fill up 12 seats in the Senate this election year.

There a couple of candidates who I know deserve my pen’s ink but they aren’t enough to entice me to endure long and confusing lines in my Tondo-based voting precinct. It’s just not worth the effort for me this time. I know passionate members of this society would probably throw tomatoes at me for thinking this way so I’d like to extend my advanced thanks for the bountiful free Caldereta ingredients on the way.

For proper disclosure’s sake, this is only my second chance of actually casting my vote following my experience in 2010. But in fact, in almost all of the other past national elections, I have always drafted in my mind “my list”. It was my feeling-voter list of candidates I have grown to like due to media exposure and lola basyang stories (c/o the elders in our house). It was always a fun mental exercise for me. Feeling maalam at matanda.

It is ironic that a very active imaginary voter had turned into an apathetic 20-something person. Maybe my kind of fun in my adolescent years were not appropriate to the age and that ‘too much fun’ has worn off just before it became age-appropriate. Now, all I care about is 1 how to make ends meet 2 my dog 3 my love life 4 my intellectual pursuit (though online) and 5 my family. My idealistic tendencies have faded with my bills and payslips. Sad, no?

Disappointment only happens when something expected or someone failed to deliver. It’s a very irritating emotion that lingers, and it gets even more frustrating when you can’t take it out in an instant. Even if you wanted to.

We get disappointed mostly by the people we love because it is hard not to expect the same level of dedication from them. But I guess we really have to let this fact in: they’re not our replicates. They are their own person. They make their own mistakes. It’s so difficult to digest that philosophy when under passionate disappointment. It’s something we all have to practice each and everytime. One disappointing act does not define the person you love.

But probably we all need a breather to refresh our emotions and detoxify that awful feeling of disappointment … in order to prepare for the next? Hopefully not. But in order to eventually accept other people’s imperfections? Hopefully yes.

Not knowing what you want could be depressing. It is more likely to be depressing than exciting for most people. This bracket used to include me a few days ago.

For the past months my uncertainty over career has been haunting me. I would always wonder what’s next? Is this all there is? Is this going to be my way of supporting myself and my future family? Am I going to be stuck doing the same things for the next 10, 20 years? I had and still have too many questions.

And with these questions came in numerous possible answers. But before I get any further please know that I am in no way complaining. The job I’m in pays much better than most jobs of my field and age and I believe God gave this to me. I got into this company by surprise – His will. (Would you believe that I initially turned down the offer but was courted for a second time after a month? How proud of me, right? The nerve! – some of you must say.)

But I believe it is natural for someone my age – just three years in the corporate and publishing world – to have vast options and wants in their career. I am 23 today and conceptualizing that I would be doing th same thing for the next 40 years until my retirement is frightening. It scares me that it may no longer be fun. It scares me thay I’d be a robot despite more than two decades of believing that I am a creative. I am afraid to lose the Danielle I was back in my university graduation day.

So for weeks I pondered what do I actually want to do after and/or during my stint in this job? Study. Great idea! Not only will it get my braincells working much harder, it’ll look great in my resume! So that got me convinced. But next dilemma was, study what? I thought it was easy. I have a degree in journalism so communication arts is the absolute master’s degree to take!

I looked up at different schools, checked their curricula, even phoned a few for clarification and I figured – once again – is this all there is? Comm theories, the inverted pyramid, gatekeeping stuff, etc etc. Am I going through all these things again? I have dealt with them for four years. Do I really have to pay to repeat these things?

My pocket felt it didn’t seem right and so did my brain. So after a week of compulsive researching on comm schools, I turned to a site called coursera.org. The course Irrational Behavior tickled my braincells along with my heart. I watched promo videos and bam!, I have been happily captured. So now I am enrolled in this free class by Duke University with a really cool prof to watch every week. Then I signed up for a number of other courses like intro to psychology, understanding ADHD, intro to logic, understanding eurozone, making sense of statistics, archeology secrets, democracy development, to name a few. If you could see there’s math in there as well as medicine so it was a tiny self-discovery for me that in fact, my interests are not boxed in media studies.

Only three courses have started this week and I am proud to say I’ve been serious with my quizzes, hence, good grades. This is all so refreshing for me. I can’t say these courses have now given me the clearest answer as to where I am supposed to be. But they do make me realize that there may be other fields of science and humanities that I may be good at.

I guess the take-home lesson here is that career path uncertainty is not bad at all if you take it as an opportunity to discover more about yourself and what else you can do. So that’s it for now. Til my next entry. (I am also excited to start my formal creative nonfiction course next week with the University of Wisconsin-Madison (formal because I paid for it and I will gain some units afterwards).

For four years in high school I never saw him more than a goon-looking (better description: Erap look-alike) boy. He was a chubby fella with thick puberty mustache on a snowy white face. He wasn’t tall but his features would comprise a typical bully creature. He would actually make a good cast on a pre-teen Nickelodeon show as, well, a campus bully.

I heard he was a good sketcher. He passed the meticulous screening as one of our student paper’s artists. I would often get his surname wrong, but I wouldn’t careless, he was practically nothing to me. He was not a classmate or a friend, just one of the other ‘Feedback’ members whom I never bothered to speak to just because. Up to this day, I am not certain if he ever rendered a single drawing for one of my mushy poems in that high school paper. I would love to see even just one now.

Fast forward to university life, I saw him getting lost under nicotine’s spell just outside Thomasian walls. He was alone, but he was sporting a grin perfect for an action star’s nemesis. He looked pretty much the same: just a few inches taller than me, fair-skinned, spiked hair revealing his forehead, etcetera, and etcetera. Only that he was carrying a cigarette in his hand and was wearing a UST Engineering uniform this time. I don’t know why it felt like I had high blood when I saw him again. Probably it was the cigarette, the ever-thick mustache, or the devilish layout of his face. Poor kid, he never wronged me but his very existence flushed angry blood in my veins.

I would get on the same jeepney with him from time to time, to and fro school. But as expected, I never uttered a greeting or paid an eye-to-eye contact. I always acted like a total stranger, a snobbish bitch. My deliberate avoidance and selective allergy to this man went on until my senior year in UST. But my superiority complex became tiresome, and one fateful night, for only God knows why, I found myself chatting with him online (I think I have to mention that I was once again part of the student newspaper and treated every college acquaintance a possible source of an insider scoop?).

I have to admit that I enjoyed our very first conversation (without malice on my part) despite knowing each others’ faces and names for seven long years. Weeks passed by and the getting-to-know stage was smooth, and this was again, despite the fact that I rejected our common friend’s matchmaking attempts a year ago. The after-class dinners with him became my most-awaited portions of the day. Whenever the clock strikes six, I would automatically hope to receive a text message doubling as an invitation for dinner and star-gazing in Lovers’ Lane. He never failed. Well, only once. I remember an instance when he called to check up on me and I learned that he was on his way home from a group meeting. Upon hearing my sad voice (which I of course tried to conceal!), he hurried back to UST, waited for my three-hour class alone in a bench in front of the Arts and Letters building (like he would always do), and took me home.

All courtships reach a deadline. There’s the inevitable judgment day for the other party to accomplish. I knew then that mine was near – it’s either a yes or a no from me or an act of surrender by him. My whole being wanted to say yes, except for my brain. Part of me still wanted to remain skeptic. I asked for a foolproof sign from the Guy from above. I figured that if the go signal would come from Him, I’ll be going to hell for entertaining second thoughts. I said “YOU have to tell me. Yes, YOU.” But He wasn’t crazy enough to appear in front of me or tell me what I wanted to hear in a dream that I usually forget. The morning I was dying to say yes, but have not told anyone yet, I got a surprising message from my best friend at 7am. Her words were something like “If he makes you happy, go and be with him”.

At around 3pm, I walked through the campus with him until I found the perfect spot where I could hand him my apology letter. It was our usual place in UST where we share stories and star-gaze at night. Yes, it was in Lovers’ Lane. How literal could it be?

The letter said sorry for a lot of things: the overwhelmingly long waiting hours he endured every day just to have a 30-minute jeepney ride back to Tondo with me, the calls and texts I failed to get back to, the thesis I have to prioritize, the occasional snob stares I gave, and the list went on and on. But basically, it said one thing. It said sorry that it took me a while to give him the yes he already deserved since day one.

After reading the letter, his wide excited eyes turned to me and said “Are we—?“ I smiled. And then he asked “Can I hold your hand?” I laughed.

That scene was 35 months ago. Today, we laugh even harder together, share more and more stories, stare and smile at each other for no particular reason, and watch the sky for new shooting stars (UFOs included).

We’ve had enough. Time and time again, the media has fed us news reports of murders, rapes, and robberies which have raised eyebrows higher than ever. These criminal acts have grown to be rampant among teens and pre-teens, usually in Metro Manila, and they are getting away with it thanks to so-called tender age.

While it is pleasurable to blame the parents for not keeping their offspring at home and do their homework instead, we should not forget how outdated our juvenile law is. I am all for putting teenager criminals in jail. I was once a teenager like all of us have been, and I could attest to the fact that I was, and until now, fully aware that those crimes are black and white crimes indeed. There was no blur in my mind. Only puppy love and mathematics were confusing at that time for me.

I did not need to be enrolled in an excellent school to know this. I did not also need my parents to tell me. Human instinct (I’m not even mentioning conscience as one may argue it is subjective), I believe, regardless if one is an out-of-school youth or not, tells us what is right and what is sick and wrong. I could not invent nor find a passable excuse for teenagers to commit such acts; even reasoning that he/she is ‘suffering’ from drug addiction is not one.

I am not a kid-hater. I wish to have three kids in the future so that is extremely farfetched. But times have changed and it’s for the worse. Children are out in the streets not to play but to snatch wallets and slash bags. Children no longer run to play patintero with fellow kids, but they tire barangay tanods and police officers with it. They are not in school to study, but are there to kill classmates and get high.

This looming moral conviction among the youth is like a time bomb. It will explode along with the society we know if the correct wires are not cut on time. And we will all suffocate from the smoke until our lungs decide that it’s healthier not to breathe anymore than to live another day in danger from this stronger, scarier breed of law offenders.

I would love to know what it is that holds back some of our congressmen from strengthening the law. I am pretty sure the number of daily news of crimes with children as main suspects is more than what is needed to give them some sort of realization. The madness has to stop, and the first official move is in their hands.

If Rizal is alive today, he’d be put into asylum if he continues to insist that ang kabataan ay ang pag-asa ng bayan. There he can die in peace. Or maybe he’ll be doing the biggest ‘facepalm’ of his life.

I figured a solution for discontentment in life. Why don’t we just make our dreams tiny things we could easily get? Well, not that easy, but FEASIBLE. Let’s have plenty little things to want and get one each day? Say for example dreaming about getting red manicure with red lipstick at the same day. Dream about that dress for a week and get it on your payday. Then move into dreaming about the skirt next to it for another week (and then yes, buy it on a payday).

It doesn’t have to sound materialistic, so we can say why not dream about walking your dog in High Street and get it done one weekend after? Or actually get a dog? Or sing in a restobar for free? You know, stuff like that that keep us going and happy for quite sometime until another tiny dream comes along instead of sulking over an impossible dream your whole life and never get it (or die getting it, or spend 30+ miserable not to mention struggling years and enjoy it for a measly 5). Shall I add and say: lower your standards? Hush your idealism? I’m not so sure. Just get a fucking feasible dream and achieve it in your lifetime for god’s sake.

(FYI I’m writing this while the fact remains I am currently mulling at where my own dream went because I am fucking tired of thinking about it and not having it done and blah blah blah and I am bitter and I need constant pour of mullah)

I might be interchanging dreams for shallow human-grade desires. Hmm…No, I’m talking about quick fix to dreams! That’s right! (all this self-talk crappy-ing this blog even more) I don’t have to appear that cheap to you just because I “dream” about red manicures and skirts!

I know it’s not the conventional answer to such lack of ability to get le ultimate dream, but it’ll keep us going without getting too much hurt. And I know for a fact that I will regret writing this blog entry when and if I grab that ultimate dream. If.

Or maybe I’m just talking about being grateful in simple things in life after all… AND ignoring that little voice inside your head asking you to chase your big grand dreams because it’s annoyingly true.

P.S. I am just so proud of myself as I took that one step higher in getting an unnecessarily expensive smartphone plan from Globe — shows how I am flowering into something that’s normal of people my age. Darn it.

I’m an actual TH in certain aspects of life. It took its toll on me last Monday night.

Since I barely volunteer for Sunday night shifts at work (we could volunteer to work on Sunday nights for an additional pay), Monday nights are a bit of work for my body clock. It’s the day of the week when my mortal being realizes it is apparently abnormal after a couple of well-enjoyed nighttime slumbers during the weekend. In simple tense, it is the body clock’s adjustment day for the night shift ahead. It used to suck because I can’t force myself to sleep in the afternoon (again) when I just woke up. So pathetic me stays at bed for the rest of the day with two eyes closed but with a mind busy jumping to and fro daydreams. Until I decided: what-the-hell-I-am-going-to-the-mall-with-my-friend-try-on-clothes-I-can’t-afford-and-dance-Zumba-via-YouTube.

For more than two hours we window-shopped. The following hour we went to my house which was few steps away from the mall and played with my genius dog, Patch. When my friend Athena left, I opted to kill some more calories (although my food and liquid intakes at that time were low) with an hour of Zumba (fitness-dedicated dance) via an instructional video in YouTube. I danced alone in the house, with my genius dog unable to fathom what deity her master is worshiping. Zumba ended at dinner time.

In a matter of seconds, my most painful migraine took over. The sensation was almost hellish given that my muscles were aching too. I sat down on the couch for another hour, until my mom came and fed her poor little daughter. She advised that I catch some sleep before I go to work — which I did — but it did not relieve that awful post-workout feeling. I succumbed to the call of sick leave. Migraine won.

No doubt about it, I was pushing myself harder than before. My body showed her disapproval by letting me experience that monster headache. I never thought such discomfort could surface after a relatively mediocre dance session.

Lesson learned. According to Google’s favorite finds, any exercise should be done with a satisfied stomach (my last meal was 5 hours before the dance, I guess, and it was the first meal of the day — yes I woke up at lunch time). Also, a bottle of water or the likes of Gatorade should be within reach DURING the entire workout, not just after. Well honestly I had a liter of water but I drank only few drops in between! Argh.